Murder by the Book (5 page)

‘The easy way,' Langham said, ‘is to give me the name of your accomplice, then I'll walk away and you won't see me ever again. It's that simple.'

The boy nodded again.

Langham went on: ‘And then there's the hard way. You don't tell me the name of who was in on this with you, and I go to the police and tell them about the little racket you've got going on here. And don't forget, I have photographs – one in particular that doesn't show my friend, but shows you very clearly indeed.'

If the boy suspected Langham's bluff, he didn't show it; if anything, the frozen look of fear on his face intensified.

‘So … what is it to be?' Langham leaned casually against the massage table, watching Kenneth.

‘OK. OK, I'll tell you everything I know. But I swear – I swear I don't know the name of the bloke.'

‘The “bloke” who took the pictures?'

Kenneth nodded. ‘He made me do it, honest. I never … I've never threatened punters. It's how I make ends meet, OK? I mean, it's what I do to earn a bit more than the lousy five bob they give me here. I never threaten the punters!'

‘What happened, Kenneth?'

The boy took a breath. ‘About a month ago, this bloke comes in – a short, gingerish chap in his fifties. Fattish. Didn't like the look of him. He said a punter had sent him, recommended me, like.'

‘What happened?'

The boy shrugged. ‘We came in here and he took me. He was rough. Hurt me. Wanted me to teabag 'im.'

‘Teabag?'

Kenneth began to describe the act, but Langham held up a hand. ‘OK, I get the picture. And then?'

The boy shrugged. ‘And then nothing. He paid up and went.'

‘But he came back?'

‘Right. He came back, and I felt right sick at the sight of the bastard. Only this time he didn't want sex.'

‘What did he want?'

‘He said his brother was a copper, and that they were coming down hard on this kind of thing – cottaging and things. Said he'd turn me in if I didn't do what he wanted.'

‘Which was?'

‘He said he wanted to photograph me with someone, someone who came here pretty regular. He said he'd hide himself in the gym and take pictures of me and the punter.' He shrugged. ‘That was it. What could I do? If I hadn't said yes, the bastard would've turned me in to the coppers, right? What could I do?'

Langham stared at the grime between the white tiles next to Kenneth's head. He looked around the room at the filthy, sweat-stained benches, the floor tiles stained with what might have been dried blood. The stench of chlorine seemed less prevalent here; instead, Langham could smell rank body odour and what might have been stale urine.

Oh, Charles
, he thought,
Charles
…

He said, ‘Tell me about him, the photographer. Did he give you his name?'

Kenneth shook his head. ‘Punters don't, very often. It's just in here, get the business done, then out like a shot.'

‘He was short, fat, ginger-haired?'

Kenneth nodded. ‘He was balding, but the bit of hair he did have was ginger.'

‘You said he was in his fifties?'

‘Around that.'

‘Any distinguishing features?'

‘Not that I noticed. He was just another creepy old punter.'

‘And have you seen him since the day he took the pictures?'

Kenneth shook his head. ‘Not a whiff of him.'

Langham nodded. ‘I'll give you my phone number. If he comes back, if you find anything else about him, I want you to contact me immediately, understood?'

Kenneth nodded. ‘Yeah, OK.'

Langham scribbled his number on a scrap of paper and handed it over. Kenneth took the paper with trembling fingers, then glanced from the number to Langham. ‘And you won't tell anyone about …?'

‘I won't say a thing.' He made to leave.

‘Mr …'

He turned to face the boy, who was smiling timidly.

‘You seem an OK kind of bloke, whoever you are.' He waited, then said, ‘Seeing as we're here, you fancy a bit?'

He pulled a cord at the waist of his trousers and they dropped to reveal his penis, disproportionately meaty in comparison to his slight frame.

Langham shook his head. ‘Save it for the customers, Kenneth,' he said, unbolted the door and walked from the room.

He made his way around the silent pool and crossed the foyer, where he found that the doors were bolted. He shot the bolts, stepped out and paused on the top step. All around him life went on as normal – couples strolling, kids playing football in the street, workers hurrying homewards. An old man shuffled along the pavement, clamped in a sandwich board which proclaimed: The End of the World is Nigh!

Langham returned to his Austin Healey and drove through the backstreets to Notting Hill.

It was after six by the time he reached his flat and poured himself a Scotch. It was a cheap blend, different entirely from the single malt he'd shared with Charles yesterday. He moved from room to room, from his bleakly spartan bedroom to the equally minimalist sitting room and then to his study, this room by contrast invested with personality. His collection of books lined the shelves, and next to the desk, in their own bookcase, were the titles bearing his name along with the magazines and anthologies he'd contributed to over the years. It was an eloquent testimony to the time he'd spent alone, losing himself in make-believe.

On the desk, piled beside the Underwood, was the manuscript he'd finished that afternoon. As ever, he felt satisfaction at the fact of its completion. Soon it would join the other titles on his shelf, and by then he would be well under way with the next one.

He moved to the sitting room and stood in the gathering twilight. A framed photograph stood on the grey-tiled mantelshelf. He picked it up and gazed at the man and woman staring out at him. The man, a younger version of himself with his arm around the woman, could have been a stranger.

He was hungry, but the thought of preparing a meal did not appeal. There was a Lyons' Corner House nearby, and after that he'd pop into the Bull for a couple of pints.

He was awoken the following morning at eight by the shrill summons of the phone.

He rolled from bed and groaned, smitten by a pounding headache. Last night he'd bumped into a writing friend who churned out romances for a new paperback company. The beer had gone down easily and talk had turned to the iniquities of the writing trade, the perfidy of publishers and the fickle nature of the reading public.

He trudged into the study and picked up the phone, the cessation of its din like a balm. ‘Hello?'

‘My dear boy,' Charles carolled. ‘Did you by any chance manage to have words with young Kenneth yesterday?'

‘Charles … Yes, I saw him. I'll come over and tell you all about it. I have a manuscript to deliver, anyway.'

‘And I have received another missive from you know who, this time with instructions.'

‘Instructions? Right, I'm on my way.'

‘How about breakfast? The finest meal of the day, I believe. Mrs Bledsoe is preparing a veritable feast of devilled kidneys, bacon and eggs as I speak.'

Langham smiled, despite himself. ‘I think I'll pass on that, but I could kill a cup of tea.'

‘The finest Earl Grey it shall be! I await your arrival with anticipation.'

Langham replaced the receiver, returned to the bedroom and dressed.

M
aria was arranging books on the shelf behind her desk when Langham entered the outer office.

He'd let himself in without knocking, not expecting her to be here this early, and it was obvious from her absorbed preoccupation that she hadn't heard him come in. He paused by the door and watched her. She was standing on tiptoe to reach the top shelf with her back to him, her legs braced and her back arched; she was wearing silk stockings and a body-hugging jade green two-piece. The effect was breathtaking.

Langham cleared his throat and Maria turned. She swept a tress of dark hair from her face and gave him a dazzling smile. ‘Oh, Donald!'

‘Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you.'

She gestured to the flight of stairs that led to the top floor, where Charles had his London pied-à-terre. ‘He said he's expecting you for breakfast.' She peered at him. ‘But you look terrible!'

He smiled. The way she pronounced terrible – in the French manner,
terr-eeble
– made it sound even worse.

‘That bad? I was out last night. Had one too many. Anyway,' he went on, hefting the manuscript, ‘here's the latest.'

She took it, feigning collapse under its not inconsiderable weight. ‘Charles will be delighted,' she said, with what he thought might have been a trace of sarcasm.

She dropped it on the desk with a thud. ‘Donald, have you ever written anything else? I mean, not mystery stories?'

‘Guilty.' He held up both hands. ‘I might, if pressed, admit to a few westerns in the early days.'

She tipped her head and said, ‘But never literature?'

He shrugged. ‘I'm happy writing the Sam Brooke books. Why?'

‘Oh, no reason. It's just that you write very well, do you know?'

‘Why, thank you.'

‘Perhaps,' she said, ‘we should talk about this at some point in the future, no?'

He regarded her. Her head was still tipped prettily, and she was smiling. How to interpret the invitation? He made light of it, and laughed. ‘Are you thinking of setting up your own agency, Maria?'

She shook her head, serious. ‘And leave Charles? Perish the thought, as you English say.'

He indicated the stairs. ‘I'd better …'

She inserted herself behind the desk. ‘Ah,
oui
. Off you go.'

He climbed the thickly carpeted stairs to the luxurious suite of rooms on the top floor, knocked and entered. Charles was seated at a breakfast table in the bow window, and Mrs Bledsoe, who did for him, was serving a gargantuan plate piled with a full English.

She smiled at Langham as she hurried to the kitchen. ‘And the same for you, Mr Langham?'

The very idea made him feel queasy. ‘Tea and toast will be fine, thanks, Mrs Bledsoe.'

She cast him a critical eye. ‘No wonder you look as thin as a rake, if I may say so. You need feeding up, you do.' She disappeared into the kitchen.

Langham took his place opposite Charles.

His agent speared half a kidney and held it before him. Langham winced at the noxious offal, slick with melted butter.

‘Whatever slings and arrows the world throws at us,' Charles declaimed, ‘whatever obstacles fate tosses in our path, there is always the consolation of the humble kidney!'

He popped it in his mouth and chewed vigorously, then perched his pince-nez upon the bridge of his porcine snout and peered. ‘You look, if I might be so bold, dreadful. Have you shaved this morning, my boy?'

Langham rasped his stubbled jaw. ‘Didn't have time.'

Charles harrumphed, as if neglecting one's toilette was a serious breach of etiquette. He reached out for a silver teapot. ‘May I?'

He poured, and Langham took a sip of Earl Grey. ‘Ah … that's good.'

‘Now,' Charles said, ‘you mentioned seeing young Kenneth yesterday.'

‘That's right.'

Charles forestalled the conveyance of a plump mushroom towards his equally plump lips. ‘And?'

‘And he's innocent – well, innocent of the blackmail. Turns out he was threatened.' He gave Charles a synopsis of his conversation with the boy. ‘None of which alters the situation.'

Mrs Bledsoe arrived with a rack of toast and a pot of marmalade. ‘Now eat up. And there's more when you've finished that.'

Langham helped himself to a slice of toast, buttered it but forewent the marmalade.

Charles waited until Mrs Bledsoe had returned to the kitchen and closed the door behind her, then said, ‘I knew it, my boy! I knew it.'

Langham eyed him over his toast. ‘Knew what?'

‘I knew beyond doubt that Kenneth was innocent, as much a victim in this foul matter as am I.'

Langham refrained from reminding Charles of his curses directed at the boy just two days ago.

His agent was in full spate. ‘You see, it is always the downtrodden and impecunious who find themselves shat upon – I said positively
shat
upon – by the system.'

Langham eyed Charles warily. ‘By that I take it you're referring to Kenneth?'

‘Do you realize how much the boy earns at that sweatshop, my boy? Three shillings a week! Is it any wonder he is forced into supplementing such a meagre stipend?'

Before Langham could enlighten Charles as to the boy's actual wage – or at least the sum Kenneth had told him he earned – his agent went on: ‘And now that it eventuates that the poor boy is innocent of all charges, I might have second thoughts about visiting again and bestowing upon him my largesse.'

Any largesse, Langham mused upon recollection of Kenneth's parting gesture yesterday, was unlikely to be bestowed by Charles. ‘I would have thought that once bitten …'

Charles waved this away. ‘But the poor boy needs support from someone, Donald. The poor and deprived have been neglected for too long!'

Langham sipped his tea. ‘All this talk of injustice, Charles … I never had you down as a socialist.'

Charles stopped chewing and pointed a fork at Langham. ‘You and I might have many things in common – and I am thinking here of intelligence and wit – but we are
not
fellow travellers. Call me an old-fashioned liberal, if you will.'

‘I will,' Langham said, ‘but I'd be careful about going back there.'

‘But the lure, the lure …!' He squinted at Langham. ‘You obviously fail to see the attraction?'

Langham laughed. ‘Charles, to be honest, and I don't mean this as any form of criticism … but what I saw in Kenneth was nothing more than an ugly, underfed youth.'